osva Photography

Hide and Seek

Hide and Seek Is it not the process of how to improve by learning to know ourselves better and better, every day a bit better, each daylight and night would make us aware of what it is hidden somewhere inside us and into which direction should we go forward to finally have a tiny hint of the next sequence of our own consequence? Hide and Seek. I have the impression that we are into two categories. Yes humans are stratified into two parts, cut as a knife can do when separating one bread into two pieces. Easy. There is one side of us that seeks the meaning of our hidden reality. And the other side is used to hide from the real veracity of the signification of the real authenticity living in our own selves. Humans. We were playing Hide and Seek. ...

You and Me In Corsica_When I was a kid

You and Me In Corsica_When I was a kid We were always the four of us; same age, but different from each other. I remember that I wanted to be an architect, like my father. One of my friends wanted to become a professional DJ and another one a professional sportif and the last one already wanted to change the world by becoming a known politician. We were so different. But when we met, after school, and after homework, we repeated every day the same game. It was a real game. We went outside somewhere to always the same place. We were playing with a wall. By a repetitive movement of our palms, waiting our turn to play. We just had a tennis ball, a tennis ball, a tennis ball. We did not have any mobile phone, mobile phone, mobile phone. We just met down our respective homes, calling each other; Osvaldo Osvaldo Oooooosvaldo, come down, let’s play. And now, more than twenty years after, we were slaloming through the tiny and rustic streets of this beautiful city; at the edge of the sea and constantly observing the other island in front of me. We did not use any technology, we were just embedded in this foggy atmosphere, that was the reality. “When I was a kid,” I told my wife, holding her right hand and smiling, “I was used to play on a wall like them, with a ball.” We were so innocent, without real ambitions. We were so naive, without any cruelty. We were not aware of what happened elsewhere, we were just the four of us, playing with a tennis ball first, then we grew up, and we started to play with a soccer ball, or with a ping-pong ball. We did not have any mobile phone. We were just the four of us. Like them, living in their own world, surrounded by tourists, but not noticing them, they were the four of them, playing on a wall, with a ball. This photo represents my past, my childhood, fully into innocence, but overwhelmed with questions. Not the same questions than today. Different ones. Basic ones. Naive questions. Naive of any sides of the real humanity. This photo represents my present, fully into my blood, my genes, my brain, my eyes, my feet, my soul, my bones, my mouth, my cold fingers that are typing on the computer keyboard right now, my feet that are crossed while the computer is resting on my knees, my skin feeling the cold wind blowing my hair into one direction, while I am writing these words. Now it is different, isn’t ? Or am I too emotional? 
Do I have personal issues because I need to share my inner emotions through a necessary hobby. Dear Diary ? answer me. Now any reactions, any words spelled or written, consciously or unconsciously, are controlled, and reported, always going to somewhere else, a different place, with a different time, with another purpose and another emotion than innocence. When I was a kid…. ...

A hand painting the past in white

A hand painting the past in white We finally arrived in this famous cemetery of this famous city, at the edge of infinity and with a created-for-tourist legendary history. I am not a photographer of any religion-related things, such as churches or places were death is resting in peace. But this hand painting the past in white has touched me. Since three days I am watching at this photo. Observing this hand and recalling the complete scenery of this moment. I firstly saw him, inside his generation inbox of memories. He was painting, carefully, looking for any detail of his inner symmetry, making any black holes into white stripes. It was like erasing shadowed memories by replacing them with a new and brighter light, switching sadness into happy melancholy. You know this feeling right? When you think of someone who was used to be in your life, or even of someone who you met maybe once, but let in you an indelible trace. You firstly think of the black moments, but then you smile. This smile… either externally visible to others, or simply only visible if you are able to read someone’ eyes. This smile showing that you painted any obscur points of your memory walls in white. That is why I needed to break my inner rules of not photographing any religion-related things. It is because I already used this magic paintbrush, and I will use it again, certainly. My grandfather, whose name is mine, died the day after this image has been frozen by a simple “click”. A year ago, he painted his entire house in south Italy. All in white. After that, his brain decided to only live in the past, avoiding the present, with some exceptions. When his consciousness suddenly appeared, although only for a few seconds, he would tell me: “Osvaldo I am now ready to join grandma. Look at this house, all painted in white. I am sure she is happy from where she is right now. Osvaldo I am now ready to go up there” A few seconds or minutes later, my grandfather would ask me my name, and after my answer his inner smile was given to me… …. and I thought… since the shadowed memories have been erased by a new and brighter light. ...

Be store

Be store This photo illustrates and without more comments why I love you. ...

Where a new life begins

Where a new life begins We were walking on a small street. Hands on hands, sometimes we stopped, and looked around. At our left were small houses, one more charismatic than the other. At our right was the beach where we could go birding. It was windy. but not cold. Windy only. They were letting themselves gliding high up in the air. We were happy. It was new for us. We were in our honeymoon. We were driving to South, only triggered by curiosity. We pursued our walk, until we felt anxiety. Anxiety because they were all fishing and talking and looking at us wary. The only tourist. "A wale, A wale A wale!" someone screamed. and this was magic. MAGIC. You can't imagine how I felt at this moment of my life, when I saw this elegancy swimming. I was whispering her: go away go away, please do not approach to much. We are humans, we are dangerous. We don't think like you, we have something else, something that is triggered by money and fear, and hate, and fear, and money and stupid, stupidity and egoism. GO away. But she was swimming, swimming, so elegantly, so elegantly that my eyes followed her until I could not see her anymore, hidden behind the horizon and the overwhelming brightness, ensuring myself that she would be safe. The screamer came to us and said: "That was so beautiful. isn't ? They come here to greet us and they swim away. I love when they come here. " www.osvaphotography.com ...

Reaction to my dream

Reaction to my dream A silhouette was behind a window, and this window had some kind of horizontal and vertical lines mimicking traces of snakes that were waving their slippery bodies on a crystal clear surface. This window was framed by a thick and silvery brightness. Around the window it was dark, black, and such an obscure atmosphere was reaching my mind. I was observing the scene, from somewhere in between small interstices separating my unconsciousness from reality. I closed my eyes, because of misunderstanding of what was happening. I opened them again and the former silhouette disappeared. I came closer and suddenly two hands banged on the glass. Bam! and I was looking at them. Anxiety, fear, wonder, and suspicion. The question is why? And I was trying to find answers. But then my vision was getting narrow, narrower, and narrower, until only one line of light was piercing this full blackness. I am sweating, I am breathing loud, I have headache, and I am touching my skin to skim my reality. It was a dream. I was in a dream I repeated myself. This silhouette haunted by thoughts for a whole week, then the second, the third and the following weeks, until I became aware of a likely interpretation of its meaning, upon a discussion I had a few days before these words of wonder have been written. I only received one sentence, but then I understood, because obviously, I thought that it might fit to my personality. "You know when you have a too bright light, such as the frame of the window in your dream, the inside darkness becomes darker, maybe the silhouette in a real light would not have been so dark, but colorful with details" I have a tendency to favour brightness over darkness. If I were the type who accept dark sides, then I would have seen a normal light and a normal reality. But I don't know if it is right. I think I want to stay myself, to write and express how I see my sadness and why I do not see everywhere happiness, when both hands, come up to my mind and knock on the door of my unconsciousness. ...

You WORLD

You WORLD You can’t understand. I can’t myself from where I am, because I am just the result of a street artist, but I am now transposed into another mind, as glued temporary on a wall. I am soon going to be strapped away, however before I am disappearing, with these words, and thanks to our eyes, I want to tell you that You World can not understand how is life in here compared to your technology, overwhelming food and water, and fake happiness, and hidden sadness. I suppose you take it as an offend, because you think that you are aware of what happens here, how me as a child, and as so many other children, think and live. That’s wrong ! And my parents in all this contrasted mess compared to your occidental world ? huh? I am thankful of this street artist, whom I never knew the name, since I am supposed to not even be real, but I am thankful because at least I can imagine what I would most probably never see in my life. Other lives, containing people nicely dressed, walking on a sunny street, and eating, or talking, or drinking, watching their mobile phones all the time, to foresee the weather, to search another place for more food or water or just listening music or even just having the ability to check around other existences of this planet. Past and present. I only live in present, I am hungry, and I am thirsty. I don’t know other places than mine, I am just listening to my parents, and I am not playing with my own toys and neither with technology but only with sands, earth, or some present I received from charities. You World. You can’t understand. But who are you Osva’ to even have thought to write about my own thoughts? Is it really what I think? You don’t know who I am, and How I live neither ? You are as unaware as all the others around you. ...

NOt a dream

NOt a dream .... Just watch me. Look into your eyes, and tell yourself: I love you. I am beautiful, I am strong and self-confident. I am because I can see what you feel and who you are. I love you dear mirror, dear diary. I am beautiful but must be stronger. ...

Contrasted

Contrasted She was laughing and I am wondering whether he was really sleeping and dreaming or silently listening to the distinct patterns of musical waves surrounding him. He, at the top of the stairs, in front of knowledge, wearing the white hat, symbol of goodness. Beside us, was an orchestra playing opera. I was muted, only observing, not speaking, just listening, in the middle of this contrasted atmosphere, where I felt sad and happy at the same time, as this scene touched my two extreme emotions and bound them together, instead of, as they usually do, acting as independent structures of myself, like when you watch your reflection in the mirror and you try to reach your other side but you can’t, because one side is the one you really are, but the other side only the interpretation of what you really want. ...

Present down, Shoulders past

Present down, Shoulders past What does she think? Until I was a teenager, I was used to look at my feet, while I was walking. What was I thinking? The present was at my feet, and my childhood on my back. Now when I walk, I look straight, but sometimes I keep looking down. Hey Osva’ why do you look down while you walk? I have been asked so many times and it stays in my mind, even now. The present is before my eyes, and my past at my feet. My back while I walk looks like it has a wood stick under the skin. It looks up and tries to be proud, despite my desire to curve as a C and show the burden of my emotional life to others. I always told you dear reader, that I am trying to be as much an egoist as I can, because otherwise I fall down. And there I was, proud of being with our french friends, in this city of light. It has only been for one weekend, but it seemed much longer. It has been a retrospection of what we really are. You and me. Us, together as ever. But then I saw her, and wondered what she was feeling. Why did she look down? She was walking straight, back in C and wearing a woolly hat but the night was quiet and warm. Reflection. Retrospection. It is nonsense I know, I know, but at this moment I thought about myself. I was walking straight, back in C, and crying in a loud silence because I couldn’t see my own self while I was looking at someone else. ...

Unlike in my colourful dream, reality for me is in Black and White, right now.

Unlike in my colourful dream, reality for me is in Black and White, right now. Last night, I dreamed that I was walking between two rows of trees. One side was green and the other one naked of any leaves. Nonetheless the dream was colorful, because was surrounded by other lives, and alone I have been, walking, while some others were seated or standing and smiling in family or as me. I’ve been said that a dream shows any particular details of how you are psychologically structured. I found myself on the apple-like path, walking on a “go” way, and not in the raw of “stop”. I really do think in Black and White. At least these days. It is my internal structure which shows me who and how I am. In this city of light, at day, darkness was beaten anyway. I go and don’t stop. I walk and smile, despite the burden of hypocrisy resting on my shoulders because of this fucking humanity. And you know what? that’s why maybe I like to have people in my photos. Not because it touches a broader audience of observers. I don’t give a shit of that. You like my photos, I am the happiest, You don’t like them, I am a learner. But what I observed in myself these last years of having my camera on hands every day and trying to immortalise the colourful reflection of my internal way, as I was in a dream-like frame in a museum of distinct diaries, is that I need people in my photos, because to remind myself that what happens here, right now, is part of my life, and is part of the beautiful side of humanity. But still I am now thinking in Black and White. Stop and go. Life and smile, exchange of glances, and respect, protected by joy and avoiding the famous fucking fear. But it’s ok to fear. And anyway, wherever you go, you walk, you smile, you poo or you pee, darkness is only the reflection of what you see and suffer from the bad side of this fucking humanity. There is the light though. Your own and modified-by-Time internal structure. But In this city of light, at day, darkness is beaten anyway. ...

Like in a movie

Like in a movie I was still younger than adolescence. Still feeling this omnipresence. An eye, a big one, hidden somewhere, as soon as the light could not reach a place or a surface, the eye was looking at me through full darkness. I felt observed. I was a bit older. This omnipresent presence disappeared. I switched the eye in flight mode. The silent but overwhelming glance shaped itself to an inner fear. I felt like I was having a demon inside me. As my inner darkness was trying to fight against the light of happiness I tried to reach every day, by always walking on the same street, with my basketball in one hand, and the shopping bag full of plastic bottles in the other, to please my mum but also to eventually have some cash for buying my weekly sweet sins. The Demon finally succeeded, but later in my life. I was walking with one guy, I considered, at this age of innocence and naivety, as my best friend. We were walking together after a long run. We were often doing sport together, such as ping-pong, or imitating Michael Jordan movements. This day, I was at the edge of reaching the adult age and he is younger than me of two years. someone followed us. We sat on a bench, and an adult of, as it seemed at that moment, the same age than our parents, was passing by us, smiling and asking whether we would need help for exercising stretching and being stronger men. I refused. My friend accepted. I had to look after his young daughter, sleeping on a trolley. I still have this memory in me. Every day I think of the second I saw him running, looking at me, and murmuring “Follow me, run run, just run”, tears dropping, as being a lesson of the schizophrenic and paradoxical sides of humanity. I stood up, hesitating to leave a 2 y.o. girl alone, but then I looked back and saw him raising a soft and psychotic smile. But it was not like in a movie, where you shut down the TV, because you are ready to close your eyes and start dreaming of something else. This is memory. It is when I keep my eyes open, that the probability to visualise this scene of my life is at its lowest. ...

Interpreted Transparency

Interpreted Transparency Seated, he is observing how she walks, how she moves her lower body from left to right, right to left. Standing a bit apart, he is looking at this scene. “Look at this homeless guy, only having that in mind”. She is walking straight and decisive. Her scope to reach her goal. I have been glancing at him for a few seconds. Homeless indeed, but well dressed and good looking. He seemed clean and emotionless, although I could detect a train of thoughts in his eyes. “She is beautiful and reminds me how melancholic I am” or “She did not even look at me, while passing just beside, is she scared because my home has been taken away?” Away, far away are our interpretations from reality. Life sometimes is like looking through a pinhole; missing the big picture while searching a particular and centralised attention of what brings matters to us. And it is exactly what I saw when I was looking at this scene. First my eyes saw a beret, then they slid down and started to be in full darkness. At a second instant, I looked at my left and saw her. Finally I saw him, apart standing there and making his thoughts flying loud. Obviously as always I interpreted and copy and pasted this moment to my own short life experience. Then I smiled and started to write these lines. Now I am thinking of what could be the next step. I mean at the end, tomorrow if I flow there again, take the metro n°7 and stop at this place, I will most probably meet him again, because he is the only one not having a place that we call home. Because he is the only one who is intensively doing a real soul-searching and ponder the real meaning of life. It is not about becoming rich, or having fake tits. It is about having someone at home welcoming you by bringing you shoulders where to cry and to love. That’ s not an interpretation, this time. It is the notion of the real life I have when I am looking at this photo and wondering why. ...

I am often at his place

I am often at his place I like to sit somewhere, enjoying sun while observing the surrounding souls passing by and sometimes showing smiles or hiding to cry. I am not at his place, I don’t even dare to think that I might feel his inner knowledge, but I can project myself in this black and white, as each of us has lived at least once, through similar but distinct experience; having the light overwhelming our ability to clearly foresee the upcoming minutes of our tiny but so precious moments in this interesting and self-destroying life. The famous cycle. I am sick. I am sick. I am sick of being so sensible to our environment, because I am suffering of either extreme happiness or the opposite side of it. I ve been said that I am too sensitive, indeed. But I have a stubborn creed. Yes that’s it. I am walking straight and thinking loud, crossing smiles and giving mine. Observing cries, and trying to hide mine, offering my hand, but not longing to receive any help in return. I do not expect that some people come and say hello to me. I just live who I am. I just think that people having this light projected into their eyes, might not be able to see the initial intention of any action, because the outcome of any movement is the visible principle in this life. The hidden behaviour is invisible to most of us. And from that point of view exist interpretations. I have a stubborn creed, when I sit like him, as I were at his place, facing the light, and observing other lives, in retrospection of my own and unknown shadows. ...

I have been talking about...

I have been talking about... I’ve been talking about acceptance with someone who does not know me, but studied Freud and other psychoanalysts. I’ve been showing my interest by knowing more about himself. I’ve been trying to see myself in this eyes that did express empathy but mostly loneliness. I’ve been sharing my feelings, which were about not understandings and asking questions related to our different personalities and retrospections. This was a few hours ago. Now I am in front of my computer and my eyes think of her. She is waiting somewhere, where people are longing to hear their names spelled by someone they never met before. A few minutes ago, I just listened to my father telling me that Osvaldo senior was leaving this world. Life decided to accelerate his time on earth and to end it. The famous cycle. And what do I do now? About what am I thinking ? Should I be the observer of the past and melancholy, or should I even use the word should? Am I looking at a child thinking loud and riding a scooter straight or am I observing the two sides of myself? I don’t know. I remember when I was at this age, because I was a stammerer. A sign of fear. The fear of the unknown. Another famous cycle. I remember, when I was riding my small bike on a slope driving up and seeing this small girl riding her bike as well but going down. After our impact, I had a hole beside my right eye and I still have this scar reminding me where I come from and who I am. I have been talking about acceptance while I was seeing my eyes in the other side of the mirror, asking myself questions, and not understanding the reflection of my own answers. ...

My definition of overwhelming thoughts

My definition of overwhelming thoughts Blank. Tutum Tutum Tutum I can hear my heartbeat. I am not yet defeated, I am in a way of being fed with new energy. The light. Stay calm, I am telling myself, while I am watching him staying still as I should be as well. Well, easy to say but not easy to be. Blank. Overwhelming thoughts. A contrasted paradigm of the difference between what is dynamic and what is static. I am still wondering. ...

Business Trips_Life goes on and we carry our luggages

Business Trips_Life goes on and we carry our luggages Our burden Our joy Our past Our genetical trees Ourselves in one luggage that we take by hand everyday and we keep trailing wherever we go, for whatever we do, until whenever we can. I am thinking of them, as I am thinking of myself, of you and you and you and everyone in this world, this tiny world. World where challenges seem too big when our feet touch the ground, but so small when we are within the clouds, above them, piercing through and trying to detect a small detail among a bigger frame than we are used to. I always think of you when I am touching the sky. I always dream of you, as soon as my eyes are embracing the internal fly. ...

Business trips_Trying to look up but I am going down

Business trips_Trying to look up but I am going down Ohhhhh I don't know. Not knowing anymore who I am, what I need and where I go. I drug myself with melancholy and retrospection. I was embedded by my own fear and living into my own sphere, avoiding any contact, any help, any friends. I dove into work-alcoholism and tried to find a balance between fetichism and egoism. I had to see her smile when she was looking at me. I had to see her eyes when she was trying to help me. I had to watch her movement, so delicate and elegant, while I was just watching TV. I m trying to look up but I have the feeling that I am sliding down the stairs leading to despair. Hope is the trigger of my strength to stay myself and to learn again how to step up, stand up and move out of my unconscious atmosphere. I just have to be fair along the word flair and not misunderstand the meaning of Life because I want to heave to the dock of Love… again. I have to listen to my friends, who ask me to love me. ...

AUREVOIR dear KUJAJA

AUREVOIR dear KUJAJA Dear all, dear photographers, and dear virtual friends, I decided to quit Kujaja. Before that moment, I wanted to warn you, since I ve been attached to this community of excellent photographers, since now years. I just don't want to be faced to hypocrisy towards myself and not answering your comments, or just passing as a guy posting photographs but not even daring to look at other photographs. Which is the case unfortunately, and I will miss Kjj, but I decided to leave this website, and to go towards instagram. I will also leave 500px and will go on posting in facebook. Thank you very much for all your kindness over this time here, and wish you all health and happiness. My email if you want to write me is osvaldo.mirante@outlook.com or my website is you want to get a glance of what I am doing in photography. www.osvaphotography.com Will miss your sincerity and our shared time. Kind regards Osvaldo ...

 

Email Address

Password

Register with facebook
Signup with Google+

By registering, you agree to the Terms of Service.
Already registered?
Forgot password?